


mercurial, more wayward by the hour

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: we get dark, only to shine [2]
Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Brother/Sister Incest, F/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Scheming, Sibling Rivalry, Spoilers, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: After emerging triumphant from the French invasion, Cesare and Lucrezia are riding high.Juan, not so much.





	mercurial, more wayward by the hour

**Author's Note:**

> An anon prompted, "Prompt: wgdots season 2? Like if wgdots was season 1 and that influenced a storyline shift in season 2."
> 
> I tried to write around any real spoilers, but of course, the fic _is_ a spoiler by its nature. I don't think there's anything that couldn't be guessed from wgdots + the show, however.

Lucrezia was still panting into his shoulder when the knock came at his door, quick and sharp. 

“What is it?” Cesare snapped out. They both scowled in the direction of the door.

Warm morning sunshine seeped through the curtains. They were rarely so careless—not here in the Vatican, not at this hour. But he had just spent a week in Florence and another in travel, since Machiavelli only divulged information in person, and the Pope demanded firsthand observations of Savonarola. In any case, they’d openly visited each other’s apartments since they were children, and retained enough sense to keep quiet. Nobody would think anything of it that they did not think already.

“The Pope demands your presence, your Eminence,” said Micheletto, voice muffled by the door.

They both scrambled off the bed.

“When?” Cesare said.

“Immediately.”

Lucrezia’s eyes widened. There was no time for a doublet and leggings; she shoved his robes at him and quickly pulled her shift over her head. Grabbing her dressing gown from a nearby chair, she wrapped it around herself while Cesare buttoned up his cassock. He flung his mozzetta over his shoulders.

“Wait. Your cross,” hissed Lucrezia. She snatched it up and straightened it over his breast.

They both glanced at the mirror to their side.

“Your hair—” Neither of them had used oils in months. After a restless night and then Lucrezia, curls stuck out haphazardly all around his head. She combed her fingers through, trying to restore some sort of order, then sighed and clapped his biretta over his head.

He said, “Who else has my father summoned?”

“The Duke,” Micheletto said. There was no need to specify whichduke; Cesare made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

Lucrezia caught his face between her hands. “Juan is nothing to you, Cesare. Remember that.” She pressed a lingering kiss against his mouth. “Now go.”

He nodded and rushed out the door, pausing only long enough to grasp Micheletto’s arm. “Look after her.”

Cesare did not bother to see if Micheletto had obeyed the order; he always did. He strode through the halls, unable to run as he would have liked—the Pope did not like tardiness, least of all from him—but walking quickly enough to make good time. Juan, of course, had already arrived. He looked as if he’d just come from a tavern or a brothel or both, as he usually did these days.

He was sober enough to cast a scornful glance at Cesare’s robes. “Cardinal.”

Juan, never more than tolerable, had grown sullen and irritable in the wake of his very public failure before the French. But he’d become much worse after Jofrè and Sancia left for Naples, and Bernardo for Spain. With no little brother to provoke his better nature, no mistress to talk him out of mistakes, no worldly cousin to guide him, he seemed to do little but carouse on the streets of Rome, amuse himself with whores, pick fights, and insult allies.  _Lucrezia_  would suit his armour better. The weight might crush her, but she at least knew real pain and possessed more courage than Juan could imagine.

Ignoring Juan, Cesare stalked through the doorway.

* * *

“A cleric prays,” said Juan. “He doesn’t fight.”

Cesare’s skirts hung heavy against his legs, his cross an intolerable weight on his chest. The thickest armour in the world would be less of a burden.

“This cleric does both,” he said evenly.

He examined the make of the sword in his hand, identical brother to Juan’s. It seemed fine enough, the edge good, the blade narrow and elegant. Only Juan could think it made much difference. One sharp sword was very much like another; true swordsmanship lay in skill, not the expense of the weapon.

As if reading his mind, Juan looked at him as if he were a mongrel in the street, and drawled out, “Prove it.”

Cesare itched to do just that. Instead, he parried Juan’s sudden blow. “You must attack me then, brother,” he said, “because I would never attack you.”

“Never?” breathed Juan, his sword at Cesare’s throat. He moved forward like one of the beasts they hunted, eager, nearly predatory. But then, Juan rarely managed to kill a real beast. Just a dog here, a cat there. Some lean hungry thing, fierce on a good day, small and weak and filthy on a bad.

Cesare knocked the sword aside and closed his fingers over it. “Our father has forbidden discord between us.”

Juan lowered the sword to his side, but still moved forward. “Even in jest?”

“Jest?” Cesare’s back was nearly at the wall; he kept his gaze steady, intent on Juan. Every instinct clamoured to lash out, repay every insult, every slight from their father, every protest he’d ever swallowed with blood. But the Pope would know. He would not forgive a bruise on Juan’s precious skin. “To attack that which can hardly defend itself?”

He knew what his brother would do, of course.

Juan tilted his head to the side, looking down thoughtfully. Then he lifted his eyes.

“That’s an insult, I believe,” he murmured, and lunged.

Juan drove Cesare around the narrow arsenal, too angry for precision or control. It would have been an easy victory—well, an easier victory—if not for the robes, hampering Cesare’s steps. Still, he had the advantage of height and speed and a clear mind, while Juan swung wildly about, fury only increasing with the cheers of the soldiers.

Cesare did not dare look away. But if he had wanted to win before, now he was determined to best Juan before his men. Giving up on quick maneuvers, when he could scarce keep from tripping over his own feet, he fell back on his superior size and reach. In a fierce flurry of attacks, he pushed Juan nearly up against the doors.

“I detect anger in those blows, brother,” Juan said, laughing and careless. Confident in every undeserved advantage.

If they’d been orphans, Cesare would gladly have sliced his face. Let him wear his defeat forever.

“No anger,” Cesare gasped. “No envy either.” The men had fallen silent, or he no longer heard them, every sense narrowed to the unseen sphere about himself and Juan. With a steadying breath and several heavy blows, he knocked his brother’s sword out of his hand.

_Juan is nothing to you, Cesare._

His mind cooled. For one eminently satisfying moment, Cesare held his own sword to Juan’s throat. Then he tossed it aside.

Everyone  _was_ silent. Even Micheletto, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, only hovered with bright, alert eyes. Cesare swept his biretta off his head and paid his brother a deep, contemptuous bow.

“Gonfaloniere,” he said.

* * *

Their heads bent together, both Cesare and Lucrezia shouted with laughter when Juan stumbled over the caltrops. She could hardly breathe.

“Hush, now,” Cesare whispered. His voice was low and mischievous, just like when they used to play pranks together. She couldn’t help giggling again, and he grinned down at her, nothing but glee in his face. They hurriedly lifted their masks, but not so close that they couldn’t see each other. She loved him—loved the masquerade, the costumes—most of all their own, flaunting themselves as true Romans, virtuous lady and daring conqueror to the others’ pagan gods. She loved everything, in that moment.

Except Juan. As he hobbled off, swearing revenge, Lucrezia cast a glance at Cesare. He was watching their brother, eyes still gleaming with humour.

She picked up a caltrop that had landed near her foot. The spikes were nearly as long as her fingers. These could stagger a horse, much less Juan in his sandals. She gave another helpless snicker. But then she sobered. A horse. Cesare had fallen in the race—Cesare, who rode like a centaur, had been thrown while Juan galloped to victory—surely, even Juan would not—

“I may not be Collatinus,” said Cesare, voice light and untroubled, “but may I dance with Lucretia?”

She would think on it tomorrow, Lucrezia decided. Nothing could be done now; besides, she refused to let Juan spoil her evening.

“You may, Imperator!”

They rose together. For the first time since—oh, her marriage, she felt as if her feet scarcely touched the ground. Lucrezia smiled and lowered her mask so that he would see it. She added,

“For who would dare refuse Caesar?”

He looked pleased, but only said, “You would dare anything.”

She rarely felt herself quite what he thought her. Tonight, though … tonight she felt as if it might be true. One hand raising her mask, the other hovering an inch from Cesare’s, she danced with perfect grace and something like perfect happiness.

“Someday,” she said, “we should be Augustus and Octavia.”

His hand pressed against hers. After everything, there was a sudden, startling pleasure to it.

“We shall,” said Cesare.

* * *

Their father, much to Lucrezia’s private relief, summoned her brother the next morning.

“It’s the Castilian ambassador,” Cesare said irritably. In a sententious voice, he intoned, “ _Suplica a su Santidad el Papa de Roma que conceda una audiencia al _emisario_ más humilde de su Majestad la Reina Isabel la Católica, por la gracia de Dios la reina de Castilla y León y Aragón y Sicilia y_—”

“Good heavens.” She laughed. “Is that the one who takes half an hour to say anything?”

“And none of it interesting.”

Nevertheless, he left early. The Pope’s welcome of the Jews and Moors expelled from Spain, however profitable, had not endeared Rome to Castilla. Tedious the ambassador might be, but he must be handled with tact and delicacy—and Alexander preferred Cesare nearby in such matters.

God knows why, he often muttered, and she couldn’t disagree. Her brother possessed many fine qualities, but delicacy was not one of them. Still, she could only be grateful today.

Safely ensconced in the Palazzo di Santa Maria in Portico, Lucrezia sent for Micheletto. As soon as he arrived, she held out the caltrop to him.

“Do you know where this came from?” she demanded.

“Pride,” said Micheletto. It was practically poetry, from him.

“So it  _was_  Juan?” She tossed the caltrop on a nearby table.

He inclined his head.

“All to win a horse race?”

“To win anything,” Micheletto said. “You know of the swordfight?”

Lucrezia nodded. Cesare had returned soaked with sweat, hair wilder than when he left and robes soaked. Normally careful of soiling her pristine gowns, he’d swung her up and kissed her while her feet still dangled off the ground, almost laughing into her mouth. Of course she insisted on knowing what had happened.

She sighed. “Which one started it?”

“The duke,” said Micheletto. “He challenged Cardinal Borgia in front of all his soldiers.”

“Then he was a fool,” she said crisply. “Cesare has always been better.”

Micheletto gave her an unreadable glance. “With a blade? I do not doubt it.”

“With everything,” said Lucrezia. “Juan might have spared himself the humiliation. Afterwards, I suppose, he wanted some public victory—even if had to cheat to do it.” She scoffed in her throat. “As if that is any victory at all.”

“Any victory is victory, my lady,” said Micheletto.

“I’m sure Juan thinks so.” She turned swiftly away, fingers crumpling her skirts and pulse thrumming a rapid beat in her throat. “Might he have … might Cesare … there was no real danger, was there? He wasn’t hurt. We danced—he wasn’t hurt.”

“The cardinal knows how to fall,” Micheletto said. His voice was neutral, even for him.

Lucrezia caught her bottom lip between her teeth, a habit she had long since outgrown. “So he might have been injured.”

“At that speed? Anything is possible.”

Her breath came quick and shallow. She felt almost faint. “He might have died?”

“Possible, but unlikely,” Micheletto said. His cool voice steadied her. “The duke wanted a certain triumph, not a murder.”

She whirled back around. “Triumph at whatever cost. He didn’t think of the consequences. He never does! And will he stop there?”

He said nothing, his face blank yet taut.

“You know the measure of men, Micheletto. You would not have lived this long if you did not.” She stepped closer, her hands curled into fists. “Will he stop?”

After a long moment, Micheletto said, “No, my lady.”

Lucrezia dug her nails into her palms as hard as she could, concentrating on each sharp twinge, one after the other. Then, carefully, she straightened out her hands and looked straight into his eyes.

“Tell me about poison,” she said.


End file.
